


Oil

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: M/M, Massage, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:37:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1683641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the holodecks only half working, Tom improvises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oil

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They know the holodeck’s only half working when they get there, but who knows when they’ll get two shifts off together again with the right slot of holodeck time, so they take it anyway. Harry’s still sore from the last away mission, and when Tom suggest skiing down a mountain or chasing off Chaotica, Harry winces and shakes his head. So Tom asks, “How about we try that massage place?” And Harry lifts an eyebrow, but Tom goes on, cool and smooth, “You haven’t tried it yet? Neelix installed it with the captain’s full approval—said it was good for relaxing, which is good for morale. You look like you could really use some relaxation time.”

So Harry shrugs and says, “I guess, but... will it be working? Though, I suppose it would be smart to pick something that couldn’t go wrong... we don’t need another dangerous simulation going on the fritz...”

Tom laughs. “A massage parlor is pretty harmless, Harry. And pretty low key. I’m sure it’ll work.” He barks to the computer, “Neelix beta five,” and the popular resort area so often used pops up, slightly altered to reflect the new purpose. There are no models in bathing suits, and a row of tables lines the patio. The sun beats down at half-mast, and the water’s lapping along the shore in the distance, releasing a soothing sound and a pleasant fragrance. Harry takes a few steps in either direction, obviously seizing it up. 

But it seems safe enough, so Tom grabs him by the sleeve and tugs him off to the changing room at the side. “C’mon, let’s get going. I could use a long rub myself.” He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s cheeks light up, but Harry doesn’t protest: it’s innocent enough. At least, in reality, it is. Outside of Tom’s head. 

Behind a thin wall, they find a row of cubbyholes with towels stuffed into them. Tom strolls over and immediately starts on his zipper, though Harry looks at him in surprise. “You’re not going to feel anything through your uniform,” Tom points out. “Is it just me, or are these things ridiculously thick?” It’s not just him. He slips the jacket from his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, kicking it aside. He stares forward at the cubbyholes, looking for all the world casual and innocuous, though he knows he’s pushing his luck. He’s relieved when Harry finally joins in, but looking pointedly away and moving slow. 

Tom finishes with his purple undershirt and starts to push his pants and underwear down at once, while Harry jerks his head in the opposite direction and shouts, “Hey! Is that really necessary?”

“What do you think the towels are for?”

“You could leave your underwear.”

But Tom just lets his clothes drop into a heap. He kicks off his shoes and pulls out the fluffy white towel, pulling it around himself. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d stay and watch the rest. He’d sit on the bench and stare at Harry’s stripping form, watch every patch of newly exposed skin, ogle the full curve of Harry’s ripe young ass. But he knows better, and he does what he has to to keep this going. He wraps the towel firmly in place and strolls for the exit, swatting Harry lightly on the back and chirping, “Don’t be so modest, Harry.” Because he knows the naïve, inexperienced stigma of Harry Kim is a pet peeve. 

Outside, the sun, even permanently half-set and a beautiful purple-orange, produces a stifling heat. It’s convincing enough to fool anyone; he might as well be back on Earth along a luxury beach. Or Risa, more like. He picks a table and climbs up onto it, lying on his stomach and resting his chin on his folded arms. It’s a great view. With the building behind him, the patio pitters out into the sand before him, washing into water. The waves, holographic as they are, seem to stretch on forever. The horizon is a spotless array of splendor, and the tropical trees scattered around the patio sway lightly in the breeze, wafting floral aromas. Not a bad way to end one’s shift. 

Harry shuffles out a moment later, a white towel wrapped around his crotch and covering halfway down his thighs. The rest of him is bare and beautiful in the low sunlight, awash and seeming to glow. He isn’t sweating yet, but he will be after a while in this heat. Tom watches him approach and wonders if he knows that he’s probably the prettiest creature on the ship, or at least, he is to Tom. He stops at his own table and hesitates before climbing up, imitating Tom. 

Lying on his stomach, he looks over at Tom for the cues, but Tom’s still smiling and taking in the sights. Though Harry’s uniform cups his ass well enough, it doesn’t do the rest of his form justice. He’s not exactly thin, but he’s not big either, just a general, tangible sort of body, but a sweet and shapely and flawless one, with a graceful curve to his spine and an attractive length to his limbs. A dark mat of neatly combed hair and a kind, youthful face. He looks at Tom with his soft lips and dark eyes, and he asks, “Tom?”

So Tom mutters, “Computer, two masseuses.” 

But the computer chirps back, _“Character files are currently unavailable.”_ Tom swears under his breath: _of course._ And everything was working so well, too.

Harry lifts up on his elbow. It gives Tom another chance to look at his dusty brown nipples, and it’s a struggle for Tom to keep his gaze up. Harry sighs, “It was a nice idea.”

“Hey, it’s still a nice idea.” Tom’s frowning as much as Harry, but he doesn’t give up so easily. Harry watches curiously as Tom slips off his own table and walks over to Harry’s. Harry tries to get up, but Tom gives him a small shove to stay down, hand lingering on the small of his back. “No big deal. We’ll just do it ourselves.” Which is what he really _wanted_ , but he wasn’t foolish enough to dream. 

The malfunction makes for the perfect excuse, and in a way, he’s grateful. Lucky. Harry looks over his shoulder at Tom, like he’s gone crazy, but now he can say, “Look, it’s not what I wanted either, Harry—” _lies_ “—But what do you want to do? Waste our holodeck time and a perfectly good opportunity to work out all our sores? We’ll just take turns; it’s not a problem.”

Harry’s cheeks are stained a little darker again, and he mutters, “I... I’ve never...”

Tom has half a mind to laugh—who’s never given a massage before?—but he knows better than that, and instead he assures his friend, “It’s easy. I’ll do you first, so you can get a feel for what it’s like.”

Harry turns redder and mumbles a weak, “Tom...” but he doesn’t seem to have anything else to say. For a moment, they’re both still, looking at one another, and then Harry manages a quiet, “Fine.” He looks away, down at the shore, and leans his chin on his crossed arms, probably just so he won’t have to look at Tom. Tom allows him that privacy. 

Tom sets two ravenous hands down on Harry’s back and leans closer to whisper, “It’ll be good; I promise.” _He’s_ given a massage before, and he knows what he’s doing. Harry shivers, and Tom can feel it. 

Harry’s skin is smooth, inhumanly soft, and warm, very warm. It’s dry but threatening to moisten with sweat, and Tom doesn’t want to trouble the program with adding oil; if they overload it, it might start deleting more vital things, like the tables and towels. Not that that’d be too terrible. But Harry does need to be comfortable. Tom wants what he wants, but he wants Harry to want it, too. 

So he starts with a regular massage, light and unobtrusive. He stands to the side of the table with his hands over Harry’s shoulder blades, and he gently kneads the tender flesh there with his fingertips, alternatively spread out and lined up like a shelf. He can tell right away that Harry’s tense, maybe from the mission, maybe from Tom touching him. To be safe, Tom says, “Relax.” Harry’s shoulders shift, but nothing else changes. His muscles are tight and hard beneath his creamy skin. Tom rubs his palms in soothing circles over them, and he asks Harry, “Tell me if it’s too hard.” But he’s being as feather-light as possible. 

He waits a few minutes before he starts really pressing in, not so much jabbing as digging, in sharp spots near the top of Harry’s spine. He keeps everything high: in a safe zone. He needles concentric circles into Harry’s skin, and he asks, “Harry...?”

“S’good,” Harry mumbles, and he sounds more relaxed already. The tension’s slipping out of him. Tom forces it away with soothing touches. Now that Harry’s not running for the hills, Tom takes his strokes lower, trailing lightly down Harry’s spine to reach the middle of Harry’s back, and he leans over to make sure he gets everything. He rubs Harry’s sides and follows the natural lines of his body, hands now working like suction cups, finger spreading out and tightening in. Harry makes a deep but small noise somewhere in the back of his throat, and Tom presses harder, covering more ground. He places his hands flat on Harry’s back and runs straight up, runs back down, kneads more and returns to rubbing. Harry makes a small gasp, then a low, rumbling moan. 

He’s quiet the very next second, probably ashamed, and his body stiffens back up, but Tom shows no notice. He works Harry steady and well, reveling in the feeling of Harry’s skin. It starts to lightly bead in certain places, sweat gathering at the top of his spine and the small of his back, and the smell of it isn’t lost on Tom: something musky and intoxicating, however faint. It isn’t enough to use like oil, but Tom rubs those spots more anyway, and as he’s fingering the base of Harry’s spine, Harry lets out another moan, though he’s clearly trying to stifle it. 

Tom rubs harder, and Harry moans again, nearly whimpering. When Tom glances aside, Harry’s head is buried in his arms, and his back arches lightly into Tom’s touch; Tom can’t help but smirk. He’s always loved massages himself. He’s not at all surprised Harry does too. Tom does his absolute best, and he knows he’s better than a professional, because he’s _devoted_ to making _Harry_ feel good. In this moment, it’s his entire purpose, and it’s something he’s been looking forward to, craving, something he’s daydreamed about more than once—getting his hands on this gorgeous body. He drifts back up to Harry’s shoulders, and he waits until Harry moans again, lilting and relaxed and uncontrolled. 

Tom leans down, hands never stopping, and pecks the back of Harry’s neck, just below the dark tufts of hair. Harry seems to freeze, but doesn’t move, and Tom just keeps on massaging him. He waits for Harry to pull back, to shout accusations, maybe to look sick. But Harry just lies still, breathing heavily and face out of sight, so Tom does his best to keep Harry happy. 

Tom can’t resist, and he places another kiss to the top of Harry’s spine, a little more lingering. Harry makes a noise, but he bites it off too fast for it to be recognized. Tom keeps kneading his flesh. Tom presses another kiss to the middle of Harry’s back. Another to the bottom. 

Tom leans down and presses in to lick a slow trail down what’s left of Harry’s body, and Harry shivers submissively. 

Tom has half a mind to tease, _“Good ensign,”_ and slap his pretty rear. But Tom isn’t about to take any chances, not now, when Harry isn’t stopping him, and Tom’s hands stray lower and lower, stroking and rubbing Harry’s sides, then hips. He reaches the towel, and he gently scrunches it lower down, not holding it exactly, just massaging forcibly against it, trying to reach skin beneath it. It folds out of the way, and Tom kisses what he exposes, pushes it more, more, until he’s shoved the towel right down Harry’s bottom and it comes undone, slipping away to reveal a juicy, round ass and thick, blushing thighs. Tom shifts closer to the table and bends down to place a kiss on either cheek before sliding his fingers over them and taking two large handfuls. As soon as he squeezes, Harry whimpers and twitches, almost squirms, but stops himself. Tom can’t be pretending to give a massage anymore. But he works the cheeks of Harry’s ass right anyway. Even as he uses his grip to wrench them apart, he’s kneading them expertly. 

He takes a moment just to stare. It’s the first time he’s seen Harry’s bare ass, and now the first time he’s seen Harry’s hole: a cute little pinkish-brown thing, furrowed around the edges. He leans down to blow on it and watches in fascination as it twitches. A single bead of sweat rolls down the red trail between Harry’s cheeks and slips over the puckered brim, and Tom can’t resist anymore—he bends down to lick it away. 

Harry gasps, “Tom,” and squirms again. When Tom glances up, Harry’s clutching the edges the table, peering over his shoulder, red-faced with heavy lids and dilated eyes. Tom has no excuse and clearly doesn’t need one. He swipes his tongue over Harry’s hole just for good measure, reveling in the tangy, bitter taste. Harry bucks up into him, but he shoves Harry back down, and he pulls away.

He walks around the table to the back of it, grabs onto Harry’s ankles, and suddenly jerks Harry forward. Harry slides down the table, scrambling at the sides in surprise, but Tom’s got control. He pulls Harry right to the edge of it, legs spread around him. He pushes those tender thighs wider apart, smirking at the way Harry’s tight balls are visible when Tom pushes him back, trapped beneath Harry’s weight and the table. Fighting the urge to flip Harry over and get a look at his cock, Tom dives back in at the proper angle—perfect for burying his face in Harry’s perfect ass. Harry whines immediately and tries to shove his ass up again, to no avail. Tom holds him firm and slaps one cheek as a warning, a sort of spanking. _Fuck_ , he’d love to spank Harry. Except Voyager’s perfect little ensign would never break any rule to merit it. Maybe Tom would spank him just for that: for being _too_ wonderful and irresistible. Tom pours the new fantasy into his work, and he starts to eat out Harry’s ass with a hungry vigor. 

At first, all Tom can do is swipe his tongue over the hole and push at it, trying to pry it open, but it’s so very small and tight, and all it does is flutter below his attention. Then he strays one finger down and taps at it, rubs at it—he wants to shove himself inside Harry’s body, but he’d never hurt Harry, so he’s gentle and he’s sweet. He tries to coax Harry’s ass into accepting him, and eventually, he manages to poke his fingertip in. He pistons that and pulls out and shoves his tongue inside, and that he worms deeper and deeper while Harry’s velvety walls close around him. Harry’s so _hot_ inside, and the pressure’s amazing; it tries to squeeze him deeper; he curls his tongue and flattens his mouth around the outside, pushing his tongue as far as it can possibly go. Harry’s hips are straining in his grasp, clearly wanting to hump him into oblivion, but Tom keeps Harry in check, under control. He forces Harry to lie still and take it while he fucks Harry’s pert ass with his mouth, teeth scraping the edges and dripping saliva everywhere. He pulls out a few times just to nip at Harry’s skin, and then he decides to trail kisses up to one cheek and start to suck into it, trying to give Harry’s ass a hickey. With his hand, he pinches the other cheek, and then he spanks it, and then he rubs it as though he’s sorry, and Harry moans desperately and whimpers and writhes in his grip. Tom pulls back to lick over his handiwork, and then he turns back to Harry’s hole, spitting on it. 

A few more gobs of spit and he’s pushing his finger at it again, just one, jabbing inside. He nips at the edge with his teeth and tongues the stretched entrance, and he searches inside Harry, buried to the knuckle and feeling around. Finally, he taps a certain spot that makes Harry shout and jerk up—Tom holds him down and starts to assault that spot over and over. He pushes at it and kisses Harry’s hole and makes Harry squirm and shriek and arch in pleasure, the ecstasy dripping from his voice. He cries out, “ _Tom_ ,” and his feet knock into Tom, like trying to maneuver to pull him in closer. Tom only pulls his mouth back when he knows Harry’s almost there—he wants to watch. He keeps fingering Harry relentlessly, and then, on a sudden whim, he wrenches his hand out. Instead, he slaps Harry hard across both cheeks, and Harry _screams_ , humping the table hard. His ass clenches, and Tom _knows_ he’s coming, can tell from his strangled cries and his tense body and his hard grip on the table. He looks _beautiful_ , even like this, turned away. 

Hopefully, they’ll be facing on the next round. 

Hopefully, Tom won’t need the pretext. 

He presses a final kiss to Harry’s tailbone, even as Harry’s still shuddering from the waves of his orgasm. The beach in the background is all but forgotten, nothing compared to this. Harry’s gasping for breath and looking _wrecked_ , and there’s a sick pride in Tom from knowing _he_ did that. 

He trails back around the table. Harry slips down a little more, so his feet touch the ground and he might as well just fall off the whole table and crumple. Instead, he looks up at Tom, suddenly wide eyed, with wet lips open. He’s got a question on his face that Tom doesn’t answer with words, because he just said it all with this hands. There’s a reason he always takes Harry to the holodeck. A reason he always wants Harry by his side. A reason he worries like hell when Harry’s off on away missions, why he glows with pride when Harry sits in the captain’s chair, why all his thoughts begin and end with Harry. He reaches down to cup Harry’s cheek, thumb brushing over it, and Harry opens his mouth, but doesn’t manage any more words than Tom does. 

Tom, trying to be funny and like himself and not _the incredibly lovesick puppy_ Harry turns him into, says, “My turn.”

Harry’s pink cheeks turn deep crimson, and he somehow manages, “I’ve never done... that... either.”

Tom chuckles and grins too wide. “I’ll settle for a regular massage.” Or anything. Maybe they should’ve started with dinner. 

Harry’s eyes flicker to Tom’s crotch, still covered in the towel. And definitely tented. Then he looks away, radiating embarrassment, though he’s obviously fighting not to look again. 

The computer interrupts suddenly, chirping before announcing, _“Character files are now available.”_ Perfect timing. 

Tom saunters back to his own table and hopes the masseuses he’s about to order is hot enough to make his future boyfriend jealous enough to massage him instead.


End file.
